By Nina Purton
The sound of children playing has always been, to me, the sound of life continuing. The laughter spilling through windows, the rhythm of small feet chasing a ball, the easy chaos of a game that no one fully understands but everyone revels in — these are the sounds that tell you a place is safe and healthy. They mean that joy is still possible, that people are still building something ordinary and beautiful.
But in Gaza, those same sounds are woven with the hum of drones, the sharp crack of explosions, and the endless uncertainty of what the next hour will bring. It’s within this reality that Khalil, a 21-year-old circus artist, still gathers children to laugh. “When I hear a child’s laughter,” he told me, “or see the sun rise after a difficult night, I feel like there’s still life.”
I understand what he means. For Khalil, those moments of laughter and light are small anchors of sanity and peace — signs that something within the human spirit refuses to be destroyed. For me, they’re reminders of how easily we take safety for granted.
Recent figures from Save the Children estimate that since October 2023, at least one Palestinian child has been killed every hour. More than 20,000 children have lost their lives in these past two years of war. The ongoing siege has induced famine, leaving many to die not from only bombs, but from hunger and thirst. Having grown up moving often, I know how disorienting it is to rebuild over and over — but I can’t begin to imagine what it means to move through a warzone carrying tents, salvaging scraps, and trying to feed your family when work has disappeared.
Yet, in the middle of all this, Khalil still chooses laughter.
Alegria, Khalil’s Project
“The Alegria Project is a small space of joy amidst all this sadness,” Khalil tells me. “We try to put a smile on the faces of children who have lost so much.”
Alegria — which means joy — was born out of necessity. In a city where playgrounds have turned into rubble, Khalil and a few friends created a moving stage of laughter. Sometimes it’s a tent. Sometimes an empty street. Wherever there’s a little room to gather, they juggle, play music, and tell stories.
In a place where over 80% of health facilities are damaged (UNICEF), play isn’t just fun; it’s a lifeline, which is why organisations like UNICEF and the International Rescue Committee are integrating psychological and mental health support as part of their aid programme. Play helps children rebuild a sense of safety and connection after trauma. For Gaza’s children, it’s the promise for something beyond fear.
“Even if it’s in a tent or a small square, we try to continue,” Khalil says in his determination to bring joy to his people. That persistence is what makes Alegria so powerful — a form of defiance expressed through laughter.
The Circus That Refuses to Stop
The challenges are relentless: scarce resources, displacement, constant fear. Khalil himself is recovering from illness, his phone — his only work tool and source of income — recently broken. Yet he still cares for six younger siblings, and still finds time to make children laugh.
It’s not a grand circus with lights and costumes. It’s one juggler and a handful of children, surrounded by destruction. But it’s enough to keep hope alive. The circus continues because stopping would mean surrendering to silence.
We Are Not Numbers
“We are not numbers,” Khalil says quietly. “We dream, we love, and we want to laugh again.”
His words echo across generations of Palestinian voices reduced to statistics. But Khalil’s story — and the children’s laughter — push back against that dehumanization. Through Alegria, they remind the world that the essence of being human is not measured by survival alone, but by the ability to still imagine joy.
For every report, every headline, there’s a face: a child chasing a ball, a brother performing a trick, a fleeting smile in a place that refuses to forget what happiness sounds like.
“When I hear a child’s laughter, I feel like there’s still life.” Khalil’s words return like a refrain. In Gaza, joy has become a language of survival. Through Alegria, Khalil and the children remind us that even under siege, the most human act is to keep creating, to keep laughing, to keep living.
Supporting Khalil means helping one of the few spaces of joy left in Gaza to continue. With limited resources and his only phone broken, even small contributions can help him buy essentials, replace his equipment, nourish himself and his siblings, and keep bringing moments of laughter to children who have lost nearly everything.
You can support Khalil directly through Chuffed or his paypal account.
And follow his journey on Instagram at @its_khalil.2
Your support could make the difference in keeping this spirit alive.
Because as long as there is laughter in Gaza, there is life.
About the Author
As a sustainability, innovative materials and well-being writer, Nina Purton is an avid investigator of all things circular. She is set on researching behavioural patterns, pioneering materials and initiatives that are revolutionising the way we produce, consume, and relate to other human beings and the natural environment.
You can find out more about her on her LinkedIn profile and website.